Highland Fling Episode 2

Mirabelle was too old for romance – these days all that seemed foolish. She’d had an affair of the heart many years ago and one or two dalliances since. There was no doubt that she loved Mcgregor, but you only had the magic of first love once. And Jack was long dead. “I’m happy. But I’m not 18 again, Alan. Even getting engaged isn’t going to manage that.”

He reached for her gloved hand and pulled it to his lips. “I knew the moment I saw you,” he said.

“In the graveyard at the Church of the Sacred Heart?”

It had been after a funeral. Mcgregor had been chatting up another woman, as she recalled, who was visiting her husband’s grave. The woman had offered to cook him dinner, which was more than Mirabelle ever had.

“Was it the graveyard? That’s too grim. It can’t have been.”

“It was the graveyard. You told me to keep my nose out of your case.”

He relented. “It sounds like me. Did you ever dream you’d end up with a policeman?” “A detective? I could only have hoped.” Mcgregor refilled the glasses. “Here’s to us,” he said.

By Peterborough it was dark outside. Neither of them was hungry after the steaks so they nibbled bar snacks and drank more champagne. Mirabelle regaled him with the tale of the day she’d told Vesta about their engagement and Vesta had screamed so loudly that the staff from the next-door office came bursting in to see what was the matter.

“We made tea and one of the girls from Halley Insurance fetched biscuits,” Mirabelle reported. “It was fun. Everyone was talking about dresses.” She didn’t tell him that after the insurance girls had gone back to their own office, Vesta had asked if Mirabelle was happy and that she had given the same answer she’d just given Mcgregor.

“And you won’t give up work?” Vesta had checked. Mirabelle had duly promised she wouldn’t dream of it and no, they hadn’t set a date, but they were going to Scotland to visit Mcgregor’s cousin and were considering buying a house. Barely restraining her excitement, Vesta had managed to restrict herself to an excited squawk. “About time,” she pronounced. “If you need help with the house, you know where I am.”

Vesta was a far better housekeeper than Mirabelle had ever been. She had a knack of putting things together. “And the dress,” she’d added. “Count me in on that shopping trip.” The bloody dress. You’d think the whole thing was about the dress or, if not the dress, the ring, though in the case of the latter, three days after she’d accepted his proposal, Mcgregor had surprised her with an unusual pale pink, emerald-cut diamond of just over two carats, mounted in yellow gold and nestled in a dark blue velvet box. It was an unexpected choice and she loved it.

A shared cabin

The beds had been turned down when they stumbled back along the corridor, swaying with the motion of the train and dizzy from champagne. Mcgregor was booked in the next-door cabin. “That isn’t necessary,” she’d said when she saw the tickets, but he had insisted. Always considerate, he hadn’t wanted people to judge her. Now they kissed as Mirabelle pulled him into her cabin.

“We’ll never both fit on that bed,” Mcgregor said, nuzzling her neck. “I bet when we get there, Bruce will put us in separate rooms and we’ll have to sleepwalk. Let’s wait.”

“You quitter.” Mirabelle took off her gloves and undid the top button of her blouse without taking her eyes off his. Her satin brassiere gaped as she leaned forward. “Don’t think I’ll let you off that lightly, Alan Mcgregor.” She pushed him against the door of the wardrobe. He tasted of champagne and salted almonds as she kissed him, running her hands over all the places a nice girl would never dream of. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured. She liked feeling his arms around her – his strength. She liked the intensity of his stare as she stepped back and let her skirt slip over her hips on to the floor. He tipped her on to the mattress and it wasn’t too small after all.

Later, the train uncoupled somewhere in the pitch black and Mirabelle was shaken awake naked. Mcgregor had gone. Her discarded clothes lay in a tangle on the floor, and on the air the faint aroma of aftershave mixed with the tang of sweat and tussle.

Clean mornings

In the morning, they changed trains at Inverness. The atmosphere was damp and the air felt heavy as they stalked down the platform and on to a local service. “Newspaper, sir?” the porter offered, his breath clouding ahead of him in the freezing air. Mcgregor shook his head. “We’re on holiday,” he replied by way of explanation as the porter loaded their cases and Mcgregor solemnly tipped him. “Enjoy your trip, sir.” Mirabelle marvelled at his voice. Mcgregor’s accent was mild by comparison. He laughed as the man left. “Your face! You know everyone speaks like that up here.”

“Did you used to?”

“I haven’t lost my accent,” Mcgregor objected. “I’m from Edinburgh, you ninny. Up north they’re right teuchters. Aye,” he said, hamming it up. “Up here, we’re closer to Stockholm and Oslo than we are to London.”

“Are you saying the Scots are Vikings?” “Some of us. Not me, obviously. I’m far too civilised.”

It was a short train journey and even the weather couldn’t hide the beauty of the scenery. Mirabelle hovered in her seat, her eyes on the bright window. “What do you love the most up here?” she asked.

Mcgregor peered through the glass. “I think it’s the morning,” he said. “The air feels different – green. Clean. I don’t know, maybe it’ll have changed. I’ve certainly changed since the last time I was up.” He squeezed her hand.

Mcgregor was keen to disembark, rushing her towards the door before the train had fully stopped. On the platform, a couple were waiting with a station porter. The woman, a strawberry blonde, looked like a magazine model, out of place on the slick cobbles. Her lipstick-lined mouth opened in a sunny smile as she spotted them through the window and raised her hand to wave. The man moved forwards.

He had surprised her with an unusual pale pink, emerald-cut diamond... It was an unexpected choice and she loved it...

Copyright © Sara Sheridan 2020, extracted from Highland Fling, published by Constable, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group at £8.99.